


Reverse

by Combefree



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Abstinence, Alcohol Withdrawal, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Feels, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Light Angst, M/M, Modern Era, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 12:52:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14189358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Combefree/pseuds/Combefree
Summary: It's been two months and Grantaire thought he could handle things better than he actually can.





	Reverse

**Author's Note:**

> Holy smokes, what have I done? Never did I think I would get into fanfiction writing again, and I've managed to stay away for the first five years I've been in this fandom... but lo and behold, here I am! Please be kind, guys. My ego is fragile... And I do hope you enjoy this slightly angsty little thing!

Exhaustion is flooding over him like nausea. Perhaps he feels nauseous too, but he doesn't dare speculate. The intensity of the winds outside has left him shaken to the bones, and when he shuts the front door behind him, they keep shaking his mind, so that his thoughts are swirling around like leaves in there. He finds it hard to focus. The green jacket is stiff and clunky in his hands when he tries to get it off his shoulders, and he knows he should take off his shoes before moving any further into the flat, but he cannot find the capacity to do so. Instead, he stumbles across the floor and falls down on the old mattress in the corner, breath jagged and eyes closed.

A little thing like that should not have bothered him. Not this much. He should be way past this stage by now. He should be able to go out on an ordinary Friday with friends, have something ordinary to eat and something ordinary to drink; have a nice, ordinary evening without his past sneaking up from behind and take him by surprise - so much by surprise that he had not been able to do anything but to get out of there as quickly as possible. He groans. He can only imagine the looks on the others' faces when he had abruptly stood up, left his plate full and just exited the pub. Perhaps a few of them had been able to draw the connection to the wine, beer and drinks that had just arrived.

He tries to pull his hands through his dark, messy curls, but his fingers feel unfamiliarly weak and he gives in when he meets the first knot, letting his hand fall down beside him again. How would he ever be able to get through this? His stomach already screams demandingly after the bottle he knows is hidden underneath clothes he never wears in the bottom drawer, just a few meters away.

And just then, the handle on the front door is pushed down, the door clicks open and a saving angel steps over the threshold and into his flat. He closes his eyes abruptly, suddenly feeling like he might cry. He blames his reaction on the fact that he apparently forgot to lock the door after himself. Fuck.

"Grantaire?"

The voice is soft in a way that Grantaire has only recently come to know, and he squints his eyes closed tighter. He wonders briefly if Enjolras had yet come to know what effect that voice had on him.

"Are you alright?"

He does not answer, because what is there to say? Yes, he is alright. Sure, he could be better, but it's fine. It really is, and Enjolras really should leave now. But Grantaire can hear the other man pulling off his shoes and moving into the apartment, and even though the panic rises inside him, Grantaire tries to even out the expression on his face, just in case it might give Enjolras any ideas otherwise.

"I'm sorry about the drinks", Enjolras says, and Grantaire can sense the blonde man's uncertainty as he lingers above him, still standing up, apparently not sure if he should, or is even allowed, to sit down beside Grantaire.

"I'm- I'm fine", Grantaire says, and to his own dismay and alarm, his words are weak and breathy, and filled with yearning and regret.

"Obviously, you are not fine." Enjolras sits down beside him, his weight coming down close to Grantaire's, and wraps a warm hand loosely around Grantaire's wrist. "You're shaking."

Was he? He had not noticed. He opens his eyes again to see if the other man's right, avoiding Enjolras' gaze and only quickly throwing a glance down at his own hand. It's a mistake, of course, since the one Enjolras is holding obviously isn't shaking as much anymore, though he can see in the corners of his eyes that the one on his other side is. But now he's distracted by the sight of Enjolras' fingers enclosing his lower arm. Involuntarily, he lifts his head and meets those light, greyish eyes with his own.

He has not yet come to terms with the fact that the intense but genuine concern he sometimes sees in them nowadays, and not unexpectedly right now, is meant for him. He still feels like he doesn't deserve it. But it's unwavering, and that's overwhelming, so hopefully before Enjolras has time to see how it pushes Grantaire over the edge and forces tears into his own eyes, Grantaire breaks the eye contact, leans forward, away from Enjolras, and hides his face against his knees.

Of course, he can't hide his trembling shoulders from Enjolras' view and he feels too unsteady and frail to pull his hand out of the other man's grip. Neither can he bring up any strength to stop Enjolras when he takes hold of Grantaire's waist with his free hand and pulls him in, close to his own body. Grantaire's defences shatter, and he lets himself be drawn in, pressed against Enjolras while the other man wraps his arms around him.

"I'm sorry you have to go through this", Enjolras says, softly again, warm breath brushing over Grantaire's curls.

"It's not your fault." That thought is just absurd. Of course it wasn't Enjolras' fault. It was his own fault. Only his own.

"I'm sorry I didn't try to help you earlier."

If he hadn't been so caught up in the empty feeling of his stomach and the aching in his chest, Grantaire would have laughed at that.

"You couldn't have."

"Still, I'm sorry."

He would like to tell Enjolras that this nagging on all his protective walls does not help, but he's too tired, and too emotionally weak, and the wornness and warmth of the blonde man's red hoodie feels too good against his cold hands and damp cheeks. It smells of home, even though Grantaire hadn't really had a chance to learn that smell until only just two months ago.

Enjolras strokes firmly down along his spine with a steady hand, and scarily enough, it eases the trembles and helps Grantaire focus somewhat. He stopped crying the moment Enjolras embraced him, but then again he isn't much of a cryer anyway. His feelings had never really shown either on the outside or on the inside. In a way, you could say that's why they were where they were at the moment.

"Can I get you anything?" Enjolras asks him.

It's another idea Grantaire is almost prone to laugh at. Not in the way he used to laugh at Enjolras' ideas before, with scorn and disbelief, and sometimes a pinch of hysteria hidden somewhere deep behind the two. No, this time it's because the idea of Enjolras genuinely asking him if there's anything he needs is too absurd to fully accept. But it's also a stupid question, because Grantaire already has everything he needs right here. He can't imagine Enjolras standing up and leaving now, and so for the first time since the other man pulled him closer, Grantaire too wraps his arms around Enjolras' waist.

He doesn't say anything, though, but neither does Enjolras. Both of them are probably only taking in the situation: the oddness of it - because this still feels a little odd, this closeness to each other, the intimacy of it. They had never even considered letting their guards down before, neither of them willing to be the one to surrender first.

"Are you sure? Not water? It might... I don't know, help?"

This time, Grantaire actually manages a snigger, though it also makes him feel like his head is about to split in two; a sensation a bit too familiar to be entirely pleasant.

"Enjolras, I swear there is not an ounce of alcohol in my body."

"I know, I just -"

"It's not the presence of alcohol that's the problem, you know. It's called 'abstinence' for a reason."

"I know."

There's a pause, and if Grantaire had not been so preoccupied with the swirling in his head, the roaring of his disrupted bloodstreams and the cold sweat drying stickily to his forehead, perhaps he would have realised that this hesitation was not very much like Enjolras, and perhaps that might have calmed him a bit - he was apparently not the only one weirded out by this whole thing.

"So should I get you some alcohol then?"

"What?" Grantaire is in shock. Was he hearing this right?

"I mean, I just heard that you're not supposed to quit completely, straight off, from one day to another, you know. It'll only make it worse when- if you relapse. You're supposed to take it in steps. You didn't just quit completely, right?"

"No."

"So should I get you some alcohol?"

That was more like Enjolras; asking about something so complex and perhaps also difficult according to most people in such a matter-of-factly way, just like that; no insinuations, no hidden meanings, not making it harder than it has to be. Just... asking.

Grantaire draws a deep breath, managing to make it only slightly shaky.

"No, it's fine."

"You sure?"

"Yes. I think... It might just have been the surprise of it. That I didn't see it coming. Which, really, I should have, we were at a fucking pub. I just... I don't know."

"Maybe you thought you'd be able to deal with more than you actually are ready to?"

Ouch. But he was probably right. Gone were the days, apparently, when the blonde man had not been able to fully understand other people's intentions. But he was getting quite good at that; at sensing Grantaire's mood and what he was thinking, and at being right. And that was also a bit too scary for Grantaire to be entirely at ease.

"It's okay, Grantaire."

Those words make Grantaire almost want to cry again. He shuts his eyes just in case, tries to ignore the lump in his throat and Enjolras' comforting hand against his back, and focuses on his own breathing.

"Anyway, I think this time it was more mental, you know, than actually physical", he says when he feels stable enough, trying to be reasonable; sound practical.

Enjolras does not answer, but he resumes his stroking and Grantaire clenches his fist in the red hoodie.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry if there is anything I've misspelled or got wrong idiomatically in this; English is not my first language. Also, sorry about the paragraphing! I'm still trying to figure out the format. In the meanwhile, you'll have to do with this... airy layout.  
> I know I might not have got everything completely accurate when it comes to alcoholism and withdrawal, either: feel free to correct me/suggest improvements if you feel like it.
> 
> Please, leave a comment if you liked this and would like to see more. Or come and see me over at tumblr; atcafemusian!


End file.
